maandag 11 maart 2019

Some unions are better off retired than reunited.



We had spoken over whiskeys
of one anothers tlife ragedies
and you, just like old times
always had a punchline
for every poignant moment.

And with every joke the burden of
the weight being carried by my heart
shifted to my head,
for the brain is better equipted to
deal with the reality of an asshole
when given half a chance.

And you joked about how still having
the capacity to
recall and share memories
made you feel so damn cool
while sitting half-baked in that catering hall
full of hormone injected housewives,
opiateted orthodontists and honors class overachievers
now with the onset of early alzheimer.

You told me that your kids
were all grown up and fucked up
and I laughed and said, we’ll whose aren’t anyhow.
While all the while feeling lucky that somehow mine
had turned out relatively alright.

You had said that your 2nd wife had been
a more loving wife than your 3rd but stability
was something that at our age was more important to
you than love.

And when you kept saying over and over
how amazing you thought it was
that everyone, after all these years,
still looked so damn good,
I began to grow a bit skeptical
about that pill that you had offered to me,
the one that you said that your brother in-law
from your 1st wife
had prescribed for your bad back.

And later on, after dumping you in the back
of an Uber at the end of the night
and while trying to buckle you in
for the drivers safety,
you sprayed me with your spittle
while babbling on about staying in touch and
that yes, I of course love you too man,
and yeah it was all good
and we fist bumped and high fived
as I was sober enough to tell the Uber driver
that he was better off taking it slow
in the curves,

and knowing that at our age
that this expression of bro’hood,
one that hadn’t even been there in High School,
was now just the drunken melodrama
and nostalgia of a middle age man
who had gotten
once again
way too
high.



















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